She's desperate here; a peevish self-will'd harlotry,
One that no persuasion can do good upon.
[Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer in Welsh.]
I understand thy looks: that pretty Welsh
Which thou pour'st down from these swelling heavens
I am too perfect in; and, but for shame,
In such a parley should I answer thee.
[Lady Mortimer speaks to him again in Welsh.]
I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,
And that's a feeling disputation:
But I will never be a truant, love,
Till I have learn'd thy language; for thy tongue
Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd,
Sung by a fair queen in a Summer's bower,
With ravishing division, to her lute.
Nay, if you melt, then will she run mad.
[Lady Mortimer speaks to Mortimer again in Welsh.]
O, I am ignorance itself in this!
She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down,
And rest your gentle head upon her lap,
And she will sing the song that pleaseth you,
And on your eyelids crown the god of sleep,
Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness;
Making such difference betwixt wake and sleep,
As is the difference betwixt day and night,
The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team
Begins his golden progress in the East.
With all my heart I'll sit and hear her sing:
By that time will our book, I think, be drawn.
An those musicians that shall play to you
Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence,
And straight they shall be here: sit, and attend.
Come, Kate, thou art perfect in lying down: come, quick,
quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.
Go, ye giddy goose.
[The music plays.]
Now I perceive the Devil understands Welsh;
And 'tis no marvel he's so humorous.
By'r Lady, he's a good musician.
Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are
altogether governed by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear
the lady sing in Welsh.
I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish.
Wouldst thou have thy head broken?
Then be still.
Neither; 'tis a woman's fault.
Now God help thee!
Peace! she sings.
[A Welsh song by Lady Mortimer.]
Come, Kate, I'll have your song too.
Not mine, in good sooth.
Not yours, in good sooth! 'Heart! you swear like a
comfit-maker's wife. Not mine, in good sooth; and, As true
as I live; and, As God shall mend me; and, As sure as day;
And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths,
As if thou ne'er walk'dst further than Finsbury.
Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art,
A good mouth-filling oath; and leave in sooth,
And such protest of pepper-gingerbread,
To velvet-guards and Sunday-citizens. Come, sing.
I will not sing.
'Tis the next way to turn tailor, or be redbreast-teacher.
An the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours;
and so, come in when ye will.
Come, come, Lord Mortimer; you are as slow
As hot Lord Percy is on fire to go.
By this our book's drawn; we'll but seal, and then
To horse immediately.
With all my heart.